


Stuff and Nonsense (Or, L'Austen Space)

by executrix



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Avatars, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25207387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: Several Jane Austen novels simultaneously. With spaceships.
Relationships: Cally/Vila Restal, Roj Blake/Kerr Avon
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	Stuff and Nonsense (Or, L'Austen Space)

EDITOR'S NOTE: When I was over on your side of the pond for Redemption, with Morrigan and Pat C., we took a side trip to Chawton. I found out from the local paper that there was going to be a jumble sale in a nearby village. They couldn't be arsed to go (even though I pointed out that a sale at Threefiftyseven Magna could blow your head clean off), so I was alone when I discovered the manuscript.

The ancient, fragile pages were covered with sprawling handwriting, then covered again with another pageful of writing at right angles to the first. 

The manuscript was in a box labeled "Slashinilia." Scrawled on the box itself, in ink faded to brown, was "Cassandra: BURN THIS!--Jane"

My heart sounded loud in my ears, as I knew that I, and no one else, must possess this treasure. Soon it was mine, for approximately 1.40. (Well, it was marked two quid, which I ponied up, but I made them throw in a cup of tea and a couple of fairy cakes.)

Puzzlingly, I was unable to get this authenticated so I could turn it around for a few million dollars. (Bribery usually, but doesn't always, work.) So I said what the hey, I might as well share it with you lot.

VOLUME ONE  
I  
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single rebel, in possession of a good spaceship--indeed, the very finest in the Universe--must be in want of a crew. 

Let other pens dwell on guilt and disgrace, such as those circumstances under which the Hon. Roj Blake and his associates were subjected to the rigors of the law. Let it suffice to say that, (by means that could not precisely be registered at Stationer's Hall) he came to be the proprietor of a speedy, but still unnamed vessel. 

In _____, in the Autumn, Mr. Blake deemed it expedient to use certain of the contents of his vessel's Treasure Room to rent a house in ________Shire, with a very pretty property attached to it. He hoped to use the house, Nethergarments Hall, as winter quarters, whence he might recruit additional allies. 

Mr. Blake left the ship in stationary orbit, under the custody of Oleg Gan, his faithful retainer and land agent. Accompanying him into _____Shire were his other three companions: his dearest friends, Colonel Vila Restal, and Nova Wiccoby, and Mr. Fitzwilliam Kerr-Avon, with whom his relations were rather more equivocal.

Colonel Restal, whose acuity was often disparaged by those who themselves observed nothing more than that he was a three-bottle man, believed that a degree of deliberate misunderstanding existed between Blake and Kerr-Avon. Himself subscribed in the lists of love entirely to those born under the sign of Venus and not of Mars, the Colonel nonetheless detected an amitie amoureuse, at the very least, uniting as well as dividing his two companions. 

The trouble, Col. Restal avowed, stemmed from the carnal propensities, and perhaps some associated degree of affection, directed in Blake's direction by Kerr-Avon. But Kerr-Avon, whose manner was habitually reserved--if not haughty--held himself back from an open declaration. He declined to render himself liable to ridicule, or indeed even to simple rejection that might be purely formal in nature.

"Damnation take the fellow," Blake said. "Why is Kerr-Avon never to be found when he is needed?"

Wiccoby might have pointed out that the Brigade of Guards was garrisoned at Meryton, the nearest town, but refrained from doing so.

Blake shook his head. "Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?"

"I can answer your question," said Wiccoby, "without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble."

At a moment during their earlier, never-to-be-spoken of sojourn on the London, Restal and Blake were passing the time over a clay pipe (one of the few luxuries permitted to the wretched prisoners). Restal had by ill-luck adverted to their saturnine companion.

"Indeed, he is not handsome enough to tempt me," Blake said. It was pure mischance that Kerr-Avon was in earshot at the time. 

Restal was not well-versed in the tastes of those who incline to the sword and not the distaff side. He could see little to reproach in Kerr-Avon's tensely muscled body or his paradoxical combination of shuttered eyes and wanton mouth. The colonel could but surmise that young Wiccoby's fair, fresh face and lissome form were more to Blake's liking.

II.  
Blake sat in the slipper bath, in front of a bright fire. Below the mantel, the fireplace was trimmed with a row of Delft tiles. (The condescension of Colonel Restal's descent to the servant's hall--to promise an additional pint of beer each day all around, and enhancements to the Christmas box in recompense for the prodigious amount of bathing occurring above stairs--was much appreciated by below stairs.) He heard the door open, but was too much at his ease even to turn around. 

"Hullo, Blake," said Kerr-Avon. His gaze was transfixed as raptly, by the sight of his friend's marmoreal shoulders, as Blake's gaze was fastened onto the flames leaping within the grate. Kerr-Avon stepped noiselessly to the bath, and  
seized the large, soft sponge. 

He sopped it with water, sent the water cascading back to the surface with a press of his hand, and trailed the sponge itself, now just moist, across Blake's back. 

His gaze displayed desire as brilliant as the surface of the flames, tinged with melancholy and regret, much as the Grecian symposium tinged its dark wine with several measures  
of water. And perhaps for the same reason: to forestall intoxication.

Blake's eyes closed, but he uttered no sound. A timeless moment later, he opened his eyes again and sat up straighter yet. "Be a good chap and bring me that towel, Kerr-Avon, it's just out of reach" he said. The Turkish towel had been folded and neatly draped across the fender, in order to render the thick honeycomb of cotton warm and agreeable to the touch. 

Blake indeed found its touch agreeable, though perhaps rather less so than the gentle hands that assisted him to wrap the towel about him toga-like, as he rose (albeit not from the waves, on a scallop shell) from the water. 

Blake sat in the great chair, upholstered in rich but now time-worn brocade. He used the loose end of the towel, at first draped over his shoulder, to dab at the curls on his head, which had been dampened with steam, and something splashed by the sponge.

Kerr-Avon seated himself on the ottoman. Greatly to Blake's surprise, he reached out his hand, and placed it at the conjunction of Blake's legs, where the profile of his virile member was boldly shadowed forth. 

Kerr-Avon stroked it at first gently, then with increasing forcefulness, as the outline itself lengthened and gained in mass beneath the warm dimpled cloth, redolent both of laundry soap and the eau-de-cologne Blake had poured into his bath. 

Blake could not help reflecting on the masterly manner in which the fingers moved over his instrument, as to force and rapidity, and the expression produced. Kerr-Avon's fingers were unquestionably capable of superior execution. He must have taken the trouble of continual practice. 

Kerr-Avon centered his attentions on a little bit of ivory, two inches wide. "Oh, God, don't stop," Blake said, his manner somewhat more uncertain yet no less commanding than when he strode the flight deck.

Heedless of the entreaty, Kerr-Avon did stop. "In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you," he said, his deep voice halting in his throat. 

He spoke well, but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. 

His sense of the inferiority of Blake's intelligence to his own; his lack of commitment to the manner in which Blake chose to pursue rebellion (and, indeed, to rebellion tout court); of the obstacles of Blake's followers, which judgment had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth very unlikely to recommend his suit.

"Damme, man, I'll not be insulted to my face--or to my..."

Mr. Kerr-Avon seemed to catch his words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger (or say rather, more so), and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature.

Blake found that his anger had restored his member to relative quiescence, and he was able to recollect innumerable instances, even during the relatively short time since their escape, on which Kerr-Avon had challenged, flouted, and baulked him. 

"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike, and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to...."

"Oh, the deuce take you," said Kerr-Avon, who stood, spun on his heel and fled.

Blake, once alone, clothed himself once again in the garments scattered about the room, listening to the pounding of his heart. He rang for a maidservant to empty the bath, and went out into the corridor, trusting that the slammed door he had heard signified that Kerr-Avon had gone to ground in his appropriately named boudoir. Blake turned toward the grand staircase, hoping that he would encounter the Colonel in the salon, to bask in his undemanding loyalty. 

III.  
In the event, however, it was Wiccoby whom he encountered. The young man dropped his head demurely, and turned his head so Blake could not see his smirk. "Blake!" he said. "You appear agitated. My dear fellow, tell me why." 

He knew why, of course. He could piece together the clews of a volley of oaths, a fine matched pair of slammed doors, and the appearance of his Commander, with a visage that portended apoplexy, ill-buttoned clothes, and the vestiges of a violent cockstand. 

Somehow or other, the conversation was conducted in Wiccoby's chamber, and not in the salon. Wiccoby (who had taken the opportunity, while walking through the door, to loosen the lacing of his shirt) removed his boots, and lay back on his bed, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee and invitingly opened. 

"By God, Wiccoby!" Blake began, and his young friend knew that the venom in Blake's tone was not directed at himself.

"Quite, Blake," he said in a suitably reassuring murmur. 

"You don't despise me, do you, Wiccoby?"

"Certainly not...sir."

Blake sat down heavily on the bed. He gazed at the young man's parted lips and his white throat (the skin, Blake could not help noticing, fresher, smoother, tauter, less time-worn than Kerr-Avon's--and soon to bear the marks of Blake's transferred passion). 

"By God, Wiccoby," Blake said again, in quite another tone.

"Certainly...sir."

Regrettably, and regretfully, although Blake retained the consciousness of where he was (and who his companion was), he found himself thinking, repetitively: Kerr-Avon. Why must I. Why can't you.

And Wiccoby, who understood perfectly well the motive power driving such an engine, thought: Well done, you cold bastard. For aught of mine, you may taunt and flout him forever. So long as it is I who reap the reward.

IV.  
Jenna Stannis, handsome, clever, and rich, had lived nearly thirty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her. 

Single women, she knew, had a dreadful propensity for being poor, and the vast majority of her sex had to look toward matrimony as the pleasantest preservative against want. But preservatives--whether of the redingote Anglais variety, or the sort that is applied to ship's timbers--are never noted for the pleasantness of their flavor.

Her father, affectionate and indulgent as he was, really had no occupation other than the cherishment of his own ailments (generally of a dyspeptic nature). Imaginary as they were, they posed little threat to him. Therefore, it was to be anticipated that many years would pass before his demise made Miss Stannis mistress and chatelaine in law, as she already was in fact, of Hartbourne. 

There had, of course, been no default of suitors. Only a month earlier, Section-Leader Collins--a ridiculous and self-important man--had paid his addresses. Despite the promised lure of the favor of his patroness, Lady Catherine deBourgh, Miss Stannis sent him away with a flea in his ear. 

Next, he paid his addresses to Miss Calliope Dashwood, who did the same, much to the discomfiture of her widowed mother (the business of whose life, after all, was to get her daughters married). Indeed, Section-Leader Collins' stately progress the length and breadth of _______Shire might have rendered him a veritable flea circus, had he not been accepted by Charlotte Lucas, who until that time had been Miss Stannis' dearest friend.

Miss Stannis denied herself even the relief of tears. That her friend--that any woman, romantic or otherwise--should be driven to render all the intimacies of body and spirit to a man so mean in both! That night after night, at his behest, she must--! That year after year, she must bear infant after infant, knowing that some of them must die--and that she herself might form a part of that hecatomb!

Oh, it was not to be borne. Yet it was only an accident of birth that had provided Miss Stannis with (as they say on the racecourses) plenty of tin. Oddly, it was the prospect of the inheritance, that rendered her so winsome to so many men whose acquaintance she would not willingly have sought, that permitted her to dismiss all of their importunities.

V.  
It must have been the company of a charming lady, skilled in the art of conversation (that is, opening the tap and inducing others to speak of themselves). For a cup of tea, even the finest Bohea, and a watercress sandwich are not esteemed to have the properties of Federation interrogation drugs.

Blake sat on the divan, in the second-best parlour at Hartbourne, and discoursed, heedless of his safety, of what had brought him to that neighborhood, and of the nature of his mission.

"Until honest men can think and speak...."

"Honest MEN, Mr. Blake?"

"Why, yes, Miss Stannis. Oh, you know nothing of it here, but on my home planet, the populace are ruthlessly dosed with suppressants..."

"I believe we have the like, Mr. Blake, although here they are denominated "etiquette" and "decorum."

"Unable to breathe free..."

"...Stays..."

"Helpless and voiceless in the selection of their rulers..."

"La, Mr. Blake! Fancy that!"

She contented herself with that. It was really too soon for him to learn to be laughed at.

VOLUME TWO  
VI.  
A furious tattoo was pounded on the door, and Blake, Restal, and Kerr-Avon exchanged glances. Kerr-Avon seized a Liberator handgun from beneath one of the crewelwork cushions on the settee, and opened the door a crack. Outside, a rainstorm howled, and bolts of lightning clove the suddenly wine-dark sky. 

The assault on the door signified not a Federation patrol, but the advent of Wiccoby, water streaming from his hair and saturating his already-transparent voile shirt, a beautiful young lady swooning in his arms. (Having no arm free, he was obligated to kick the door.) 

Kerr-Avon, mindful of the damage deposit, snatched the paisley shawl from the harpsichord, and draped it over the settee before the young lady's very slender, and very moist, person was placed on it. 

"I was riding on the Heath," Wiccoby said. "The storm came upon me suddenly. As the lightning crashed, the horse reared, and startled the young lady, who fell and injured her--ah, her lower limb. There was nothing for it, but that I must swing her up to ride pilion and bring her here." 

As Wiccoby rubbed his arms, Blake knelt by the young lady's side and waved sal volatile beneath her nose. She sat up just as the parlourmaid, in response to Colonel Restal's urgent request, brought a cup of tea laced with spirits. The young lady coughed violently as she took the first sip (the cook labored under the misapprehension that the Colonel intended to drink it himself).

Mr. Kerr-Avon, who was delegated to perform all tasks involving manual dexterity, save those involving impermeable portals, set the young lady's ancle, which had suffered a sprain. Then they assisted her to one of the spare bedrooms, where a nightgown was hastily borrowed from one of the maids. Her own clothing was laundered and dried. 

A supper tray was brought to her, and one of the footmen was dispatched with a note to her home, explaining the circumstances of what might be termed her fortunate fall.

In the morning, Miss Calliope endeavored to descend the stairs, but the strain to her ancle, in conjunction with a violent catarrh, rendered her unequal to the task. A further note was dispatched, explaining the change.

Colonel Restal had the grounds virtually despoiled to fill her room with bouquets.

Mr. Wiccoby placed a single stem of bluebell on her luncheon tray. Miss Calliope seized upon it, and tucked it into the placket of her borrowed nightgown.

In the kitchen (the only room with a fire) Mrs. Dashwood sat with her pen poised above one of the last sheets of headed notepaper still remaining to her in her state of genteel poverty. How, she wondered, might she express her gratitude for the kindness and condescension shown to Calliope--while hinting that, surfeited as she was with daughters, they might keep that one and welcome? There were furthermore full four gentlemen in the house, so she hoped that her consignment of that most perishable commodity might be reduced by their sojourn. 

Then Miss Calliope Dashwood's catarrh turned to fever, and fever to delirium, and for days her very life was despaired of. No nurse could have been more devoted than the Colonel, who sat up with her night after night, sponging her brow, offering her a few sips of broth or arrowroot, emptying the slops. 

Whether for this reason, or from the sturdiness of her own constitution, Miss Calliope rallied, and the light in her eyes was restored. Soon she was sitting up, and taking nourishment. 

Her constant cry was for Wiccoby to read to her, which he did for quite as long a time as one might pick strawberries--that is to say, full fifteen minutes at a time together. "He reads with such wonderful expression," she would say, gazing raptly upon him as the pre-Atomic words of Cowper, or our old English Bard, spilled from his lips. 

The happy news was sent to Mrs. Dashwood, who, as soon as she wiped away a grateful tear, reflected that really, it was too bad to see the girl recovered, yet as unwed as ever.

VII.  
Miss Calliope's full recovery was signaled and celebrated by the favor of an invitation to call at Posings, quite the grandest house in _________ Shire. 

In the morning room at Posings, Lady Catherine deBourgh (relict of an Admiral of vicious habits) glared through her lorgnon at Calliope. "Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Dashwood?"

"Yes, Ma'am, all."

"All--what all thirteen out at once? Very odd! The younger ones out before the elder are married! Your younger sisters must be very young!"

This was not the place to explain that "younger" was not a terribly applicable concept. Or to open her lips in any way that might betray the fate--or indeed the very existence--of Zelda. The fourteenth of her sisters. If, indeed, she yet lived, and had not expired of want and misery, or of very disgrace.

In the distance could be descried the sound of a blow and the whimper of a lady's maid. "Ah," Lady Catherine said. "I believe my niece has returned."

Lady Catherine's niece, a lady of striking though uncommon appearance, glared at Calliope. Having evidently found her wanting, she gathered her skirts about her and sat down. Not a word escaped her lips, although Calliope's nervous attempts at conversation were met with exceedingly discouraging grunts.

Calliope decided that it was time for her to recollect that one of her sisters had the head-ach (with so many to go around, this scarcely counted as a lie). 

"Have you any accomplishments, Miss Dashwood?" Lady Catherine asked, in a tone that clearly expected to be denied.

"Well, I draw a little...but, no, not really."

"We neither of us perform to strangers," came the dark, burnished voice of Lady Catherine's niece. They might have sat there like statues for ever, but Lady Catherine's nephew strode into the morning room. 

Oh, how he must have suffered! Miss Calliope's heart, brimming with sensibility, contracted within her. "It's like a mausoleum in here," he said. "And not the right one either! Let's have a game of cards."

So cards were fetched, and the small party became almost lively. Miss Calliope did not know how to play whist, so the game, instead, was Speculation.

"There, I will stake my last like a woman of spirit," Lady Catherine's niece said, suiting the action to the word. "No cold prudence for me." Her light eyes gleamed. "I am not born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shall not be from not striving for it." 

The game was hers, and only did not pay her for what she had given to secure it. 

VIII.  
Wiccoby strolled into Meryton, made some purchases at the winemonger's and tobacconist's shops, and bethought that there might be some cravats in the newest style for sale at the draper's. As he opened the door to the shop, a deep, unfamiliar voice boomed out.

"Will this muslin wash, shopman? I warn you that it will be the worse for you if it does not," said a young lady whom Wiccoby had never seen before. She was clad in a white dress of unusual make. Never before had Wiccoby seen a day dress of the purest satin. An unfashionable fringe of dark hair showed beneath her close bonnet. No ringlets peeped out from the bonnet--and, indeed, the very closeness of the bonnet denoted that there could have been no great plethora of hair beneath.

With her was a man, evidently her close companion. It was to surmised that his terrible injuries (he wore a black eyepatch, and one sleeve hung empty) occurred as a result of those wars otherwise never reflected in these pages.

Wiccoby looked around. No one of his acquaintance was present. Well, the fellow looked gentleman-like enough. 'How d'ye do?" he asked, presenting a calling card. Looking down, he realized that he must have picked up one of Blake's by mistake.

For an instant, the man's face was suffused with the most terrible, black rage that could be summoned by the most utterly abandoned demon in the deepest pit of Acheron. "I'll get...." he muttered through shut teeth. Then, by purest force of will, an agreeable expression was spread over his face. "I'll get my card from my pocket," he said. "Pardon me, it will take a moment."

The young lady, who had a full (and indeed quite lovely) complement of limbs and eyes, reached into the pocket of his paletot and produced a silver card case.

"I am Travis Crawford," the man said, the smooth amiability of his voice once again restored. "Allow me to present you to my sister, Miss Servalan Crawford."

Wiccoby bowed over her hand, and Crawford said, "We are ensconced at Posings, the seat of our dear Aunt, the widow of Admiral deBourgh."

"With seats, Rears, and Vices, we are well acquainted, even to surfeit," said the young lady. Wiccoby shook his head to clear it. That cannot have been what Miss Crawford said.

Miss Crawford glanced at the visiting card, still held in her brother's remaining hand. "I see you are with Blake," she murmured. There was something in her tone, beneath the anodyne words, that Wiccoby found hard to interpret. 

"Lady Catherine will soon be giving a ball--oh, a trifling affair as is usual in these country places. We shall send a card. They tell me that before it was let, Nethergarments Hall was quite the center of amusements hereabout. Does Mr. Blake intend any entertainments for the quality?"

"Our stay will be brief," Wiccoby said. "Perhaps a soiree or so, or a fete champetre, but no balls." 

Miss Crawford turned to her brother. "You hear that, Travis? What did I tell you?"

VOLUME THREE  
IX.  
________Shire was a delightful place, favored by both Nature and Art. But it was shameful how long it took for the Post to be delivered. Really, the delay, and its consequences, could hardly have been worse had Thomas Hardy chosen to write a novel about Canada. 

Earlier in their peregrinations, the Colonel had written to a friend of his who dwelled on the planet in which ______Shire was located. He little dreamed that one day they would make planetfall, and in ______Shire itself! 

The friend replied, in a long letter that was at first puzzling, for much of it appeared to be idle gossip, about individuals unknown to the Colonel. He was about to consign it to the fire, regretting the postage he had paid to receive it, when a cutting from the Gazette fell out of the folds of the letter.

The cutting, in salacious detail, described the seduction and ruin of a young lady, in reduced circumstances but of good repute, Miss Z*ld* D*shw**d. The Colonel's blood ran cold at the thought of any information, so distressing to the sensibilities, being made known about his dear Miss Calliope's family.

His blood ran hot, then froze again, at the intelligence that the more culpable party in this tale of sin and woe, later justly punished by becoming a common convict, was Mr. N*v* W*cc*by.

"I must call him out," the Colonel said, white to the lips. "And you must be my second," he told Kerr-Avon, who was unobtrusively reading over his shoulder.

X.  
Mr. Kerr-Avon was of two minds about the whole affair. His sense of honor was keen and punctilious, but entirely idiosyncratic, and the wishes and even the principles of others made but little impression on him. In the abstract, he knew that society as presently constituted depended on virtue, or at least its pretense. Yet, need society continue to be constituted as it was? 

He had formed himself as one of the finest pistol shots in all the Dome, precisely so that outraged husbands, fathers, and brothers might think twice about their suppositions (and indeed the evidence of their own eyes). He knew that Restal was not his equal in marksmanship, quite apart from his unfortunate tendency to precipitate any weapon given to him, directly to the ground. It was lucky, Kerr-Avon reflected, that Restal had been able to purchase his colonelcy, for it never would have been awarded on the battlefield for valor.

Therefore, the outcome most to be predicted--at the very least, a seventy-five percent probability-was that in less than twenty-four hours, Restal would be lying flat on his face in the orchard, a bullet through his heart. 

Blake would greatly mourn the death of his friend, the more so as it would occur at the hand of a yet more intimate friend. And all for some chit of a girl! Nonetheless, Kerr-Avon could not help experiencing a bit of sympathy for the ruined Zelda Dashwood whose state, if she yet lived, must be desperate.

Both his hands were laden. In his right hand, he clutched a pair of the finest cheveril gloves. He strode across to where Wiccoby stood, and dashed the gloves across his face. "I am sent by Colonel Restal as his second," he said. "To deliver his challenge for dawn tomorrow."

That done, he stuffed the gloves into his jacket pocket. In his left hand, he held a purse, in soft, faded deep red leather stamped with gold fleurs-de-lis. "There's fifty pounds in gold and a ticket for the packet boat in there," he said. "Unless you're a greater fool than I think, you'll use them and be damned grateful."

"You shall be damned grateful in turn, to have your rival out of the way," Wiccoby said. Then he shut his teeth as he realized that he sneered at one who could be a foe far more formidable than Restal ever could.

Kerr-Avon made no remonstrances, only gave a lupine grin, and extended the purse once again. This time, Wiccoby took it turned his back. "I suppose I may take my portmanteau?"

"On the sole condition that it does not contain anything appertaining to the landlord, for which we will be charged."

XI.  
At eleven-thirty the next morning, Kerr-Avon sent a maidservant to open the curtains in Restal's room, and bring him a pint of iced water and an egg shaken up with Angostura bitters. It took a moment for the colonel to flinch at the brilliant sunshine, and wonder why the sun would shine so brightly in the dead watches before the dawn. 

He gulped down the liquid and the Prairie Oyster, stuffed his nightshirt into a pair of small-clothes, and shuffled down to the dining room in carpet slippers, omitting stockings. There, he found Kerr-Avon placidly breakfasting off a devilled bone and a glass of Madeira, reading the shipping news.

"I'm not dead," Restal told him, something querulously. "He's not dead. Nobody's dead. You didn't wake me. What will Wiccoby say about me, sleeping through our duel?"

"'Restal, qui est-ce que c'est?,'" Kerr-Avon said indifferently. "Or something in French at any rate, for he must be well on his way to Calais by now."

"That was an affair of honor," the Colonel said petulantly. "How in the blasted name of Erebus can I hold my head up now?"

"It is nonetheless attached to your body," said Kerr-Avon, recollecting why he so seldom asked for gratitude. It is so seldom forthcoming, asked or otherwise.

"Well, you'll have to explain it all to Blake," the Colonel said, a rather mean satisfaction in his tone. "Serves you bloody right, too."

XII.  
There was no time to be wasted. They must go back to the ship at once--yet there was no response. Kerr-Avon's teleport bracelet was on his bedside table, so that explained one mystery. 

It was all very vexing. The housekeeper lacked, or did not dispense, information about Kerr-Avon's whereabouts. Wherever he was, he must have gone on horseback, for the great stallion Manifesto was also absent. 

Blake looked around the room, about to pass a comment to Wiccoby, relative to the predilection of Kerr-Avon to run, before realizing that Wiccoby would never again be there to serve as confidant. Or anything else, a prospect provocative of a sigh.

In a way, it was Wiccoby himself who had caused the problem. His hasty departure left behind a mass of documents (chiefly bills) and correspondence. Sorting through it, Blake discovered Travis Crawford's visiting card. Oh, why had Wiccoby not mentioned it? But then, as Blake had never revealed to anyone what had passed between himself and that emissary of the Federation, why should it have occurred to him to do so?

XIII  
To end the suspense, and resolve the mystery of Kerr-Avon's whereabouts (for this account, once again, must approach a climax): the previous day, he had taken a few moments to secure his warmest cloak, and to place the fatal letter in a fresh wrapper and re-send it to Calliope. 

Then he rode all night, although by no means in the context he preferred, arriving at the louche quarters of the sinful Metropolis. There, assisted by a few hints in Colonel Restal's correspondence, and many coins pressed into avid palms, he discovered the whereabouts of the frail, lost, and destitute Zelda Dashwood. Alas (or perhaps to the sad benefit of all) her wretched infant was no more. 

Mr. Kerr-Avon, reflecting that sentimentality, once yielded to, was fatal to the bank balance, satisfied the importunities of Zelda's landlady (a blowsy female putatively adorned in curl papers) for back rent. After looking Zelda up and down, Kerr-Avon decided that it would not be necessary to pay the future rent very far in advance. Wiccoby's taste in women--as in wine--was impeccable.

The next morning, he brought her to a modiste, where however he found it necessary to place some restraint upon her tastes. The next afternoon, he introduced her a business acquaintance of his, one Mr. Daniel Gryffon, a wealthy dealer in ship's stores. Kerr-Avon ate some cold beef and had Manifesto saddled up for the journey back to _________ Shire. 

He suppressed the more effusive of Zelda's expressions of gratitude, warning her only to direct Mr. Gryffon's proofs of affection (which would naturally be most plethoric in the earlier part of their acquaintanceship) in the direction of jewels that could be re-sold and invested in the Consols.

A week later, Mr. Gryffon purchased a ninety-nine-year lease on a handsome mews house in which Zelda could be installed. 

A month later, Miss Calliope received (and burned after a single reading, as instructed) a letter from Zelda. Although frugal of details, her errant sibling told her that she was well and happy. The letter concluded--although with a puzzling lack of explication--"And be certain, my dear Cally, ever to esteem Mr. Kerr-Avon. He is as good as an angel."

XIV.  
"Kerr-Avon," Blake said, surrounded by a hurly-burly of half-packed portmanteaux, "What had you to do with Wiccoby's departure?"

"Oh, very little, I assure you."

"I don't believe you."

"If you are to distrust me, just get on with it," Kerr-Avon said with feigned indifference, his voice like a fairing of snarls dipped in toffee.

"But what could your motives possibly have been? Were you so very jealous of a man you perceived to be a rival for my affections?"

"Indeed, the thought of you together often forced itself to my consciousness, and I derived but little content from it."

"Colonel Restal has told me all," Blake said simply (for that kindly personage never could long remain angry at a friend). Blake gazed at Kerr-Avon, and observed the softening of his countenance, elsewhere counterbalanced.

With all the clash and adhesiveness of a pair of magnets, they embraced. Blake began to kiss Kerr-Avon, descending from his forehead to his sweet and newly softened mouth, his mouth to the last inch of skin visible before it disappeared into his shirt collar, and so downward and again downward. He was in the middle before he knew that he had begun. 

Kerr-Avon spoke, with a remarkable ability to draft rhetorical periods: "But why, Blake? Or why, rather, at this time? My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners--my behavior to you was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now, be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?"

Oh, gods, man, belt up, Blake wanted to say, but instead groaned "For the liveliness of your mind, I did." 

Kerr-Avon broke away, stepped behind Blake, raised him quite to his feet, and enfolded him in an embrace.

"You may as well call it impertinence at once," he whispered. The wicked celerity of his fingertips drenched Blake's vision in flame. "It was very little less." His teeth closed on Blake's earlobe, but not before he had rendered it more sensitive than before by burnishing it with his tongue.

"The fact is, that you were sick of civility," (nibble) "of deference," (nibble) "of officious attention. You were disgusted with the followers who were always speaking and looking, and thinking for your approbation alone."

Kerr-Avon placed his hands on the thin, warm muslin of Blake's shirt, and stroked, teazingly avoiding the peaks that, in the fairer sex, would be the founts of nourishment, and that now besought his attention.

"I roused..." he began again, and Blake moaned, "Jesus, yes...."

"And interested you," Kerr-Avon continued implacably. "Because I was so unlike them. Had you not been really amiable you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just."

Now, here was stuff that Blake (or any man) could listen to for hours together. 

"And in spite of the pains you took to make yourself appear heartless, nevertheless your actions have often been thoughtful and even generous," Blake conceded. He arched his back, and soon found a peg upon which to hang that argument.

XV.  
"Oh, have you come to make an offer for her?" Mr. Stannis asked vaguely, waving the Gazette and his spectacles.

"No, sir, I have come pour prendre conge."

"Oh," Mr. Stannis said. "Well, she probably wouldn't have you. Doesn't seem to want to have anybody. She's in the conservatory."

Blake approached Miss Stannis, who was engaged in a scientific experiment on the propagation of orchids. He bowed over her hand, but at her direction did not kiss it--her gloves were encrusted in potting soil.

"Miss Stannis, I regret to say that through the coming into the neighborhood of--shall we say, certain persons who do not wish me well--I must take my departure well in advance of the planned time, and alas before I have completed my recruitment mission. In everything, I observe that you are a woman of sense and judgment, and I regret that our acquaintanceship must be so short."

Miss Stannis stood up even straighter than her normal graceful posture. Her eyes flashed with the decision taken in a moment.

"Take me with you," she told the astonished rebel.

XVI.  
Promptly upon the appointed hour of dead midnight, Kerr-Avon planted a tall ladder in the soft earth of the croquet lawn and climbed up, much hindered by a parcel of clothing. Miss Stannis was already at the window, leaning out to observe him. She helped him through the window and tore open the parcel. Heavens above, they expected her to wear small-clothes! And a bodice and a jacket much like a man's coat, but that it ended at her waist. 

"We have no ladies' maids aboard our ship," Kerr-Avon said. "We must all dress in hard-wearing garments suited to an active life." She blushed, and waited for him to depart the room. Seeing her blush, he turned his back, and she began to remove the fashionable garments that, until that moment, had imprisoned her.

In that there was a mirror on the wall opposite, the deprivation to Kerr-Avon was not severe. Miss Stannis recognized this, and was able to observe, without displeasure, the generous appreciation evident on his face.

Five miles away, Colonel Restal climbed up another ladder, tapped on Miss Calliope Dashwood's window, handed her a drawstring bag, and whispered, "I'll wait outside while you change your garments, then assist you down the ladder." Miss Calliope said, "Here, take this," and handed him a small bag of money and jewels. "Well, wherever we go, I expect that money will come in handy."

Their families sent to Gretna Green, in a desultory fashion, but they were not to be found there.

"Gan, five for teleport," Blake said that night, oddly enough placing his lips near the strangely ornamented bracelet he had snapped onto his wrist.

"Five?" boomed a voice from the bracelet. The Misses Stannis and Dashwood flinched, startled. "Last I looked, it was you, Kerr-Avon, Restal, and Wiccoby."

"Wiccoby shan't be joining us," Blake said firmly. "And our army has been enhanced by two lovely and most charming young ladies."

"Ladies, Mr. Blake? Is that quite suitable? Have we accommodations for them?"

"Dammit, Gan, we've accommodations for hordes of ladies, brigades of servingmaids, and stacks of trollops, if we care to have them," Kerr-Avon said. "Now, get us out of here." And if we run short, he thought, they can always sleep in my cabin. I shan't need it myself.

"Kerr-Avon, there's no call to use such language when ladies are present," the Colonel said.

"Oh Colonel dear, we are ladies no longer," said Miss Dashwood.

Calliope Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as at twenty-seven, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give herself to another!--and that other, a man whom she had considered too old to form an attachment--and who still sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!

Calliope Dashwood found herself submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, the patroness of a communications console.

XVII.  
There was a peculiar feeling in Miss Stannis' chest, or perhaps an absence of feeling. Without her stays, she was able to breathe quite deeply, and her heart did not flutter when she said, "We have become rebels and outlaws," excitement evident in her mien.

In the flash of an eye (and the twinkling of an optical) they found themselves on board the ship. The two young ladies clung together, in terror and wonder. 

"This is the teleport bay, as you see," Blake said. "Come through, the flight deck is this way." 

Miss Stannis stood, awestruck, on the deck of the great ship. Behind her, Zen pulsed quietly. "I shall call her the Liberator," she said.

"Jolly good," the Colonel said, busy at the tantalus. He bustled around, distributing pony glasses of ratafia. "God bless the Liberator, and all who sail in her!"

FINIS


End file.
